The MacKinnon's Bride (24 page)

She was scarce aware that he laid her down
upon the grass once more. His body covered hers, his weight both
welcome and cherished, while his lips and hands continued to
explore and seduce her. Her torso, her breasts, her thighs.

And then his fingers were suddenly there
between her legs, and she opened for him instinctively, feeling
again that incredible bliss. He settled between her thighs, and she
felt that rigid part of him nudge her. Welcoming him, Page lifted
her legs, wrapping them instinctively about him.

The first thrust came without warning.
Bracing her hips with his hands, he entered her swiftly, muffling
her cry of pain with his mouth and his kisses. Her heart felt as
though it would be thrust into her throat, so deep did he drive
himself within her. Casting her head backward, she cried out.

“
Tell me to stop,” he
murmured against her mouth, raining tiny feverish kisses upon her
chin and her throat. “It’s no’ too late. If ye will it... I’ll
stop, lass... Just say the words...”

A cold sheen of perspiration broke upon her
fevered body, but Page shook her head frantically, embracing even
the pain. She wanted everything he would give her—everything—
knowing somewhere in her heart that her first time with him would
be her last.

And then the pain dissipated and she felt
again the sweetest ache within. He lay still upon her, filling her
completely, waiting, it seemed, for her to respond. Page began to
move, trying to rediscover that elusive sensation.

Iain groaned with a pleasure so keen, it was
almost pain.

He didn’t intend to move so soon, but she
was too insistent, too passionate, moving beneath him as though she
would milk him of every last drop of his will.

And Christ... he wanted her to... want
this...

He couldn’t keep himself from it.

He thrust again, and again, driving himself
mindlessly, until the fog in his brain cleared enough for him to
consider the consequences of his actions. He tried to withdraw, for
her sake, but she lifted her legs, entwining them about his. He
cried out, shuddered, and held on to his will like never before,
refusing to spill himself within her. Though his heart felt near to
strangling, he drew upon every last shred of will and thrust again,
and again, never stopping until he felt her succumb beneath
him.

When her body trembled with her own release,
and she gave a soft keening cry that ended in a blissful sigh, he
knew he’d pleased her well, and he withdrew swiftly, spilling
himself without her instead. Sated and depleted, he collapsed atop
her, savoring the musky scent of their loving that surrounded
them... the cool sheen of sweat upon their bodies, and the breeze
across his back.

He was grateful to her in a fashion he could
never repay, and connected now in a manner he would never
forswear.

Like a besotted youth, he reached out and
plucked a bright yellow crocus from the grass beside her and handed
it to her. She accepted the blossom, and he buried his face within
the crook of her neck, embracing her.

She was his now.

He’d made it so.

And he vowed, upon his life, that he’d never
let her rue this day.

While the rest of them had waited about like
idiots, fiddling their fingers, the two of them had been rut
tin’.

Damn but it galled.

If he’d not witnessed the sight of them
together with his own eyes, he’d never have believed it.

When Iain should have beaten the impertinent
bitch, he returns, instead, cradling her within his arms while she
sleeps like a wee bairn. After the trouble she’d stirred, he’d half
expected, half hoped, his brother would send her flying back to her
father. At the very minimum, that their long absence meant he’d
taken it upon himself to return her to Balfour, dumping her like so
much offal into the castle ditch.

It was no more than she deserved.

Instead, Iain had been picking crocus
blossoms for the Sassenach slut. She clutched one still within her
fist whilst she slept.

Damn, but naught was going as planned—naught
at all! By this time, he’d hoped to be rid of Iain’s whelp once and
for all. And the wench—she never should have become a problem to
begin with—rot Iain and his bleeding heart!

He sat, watching Kerwyn and Dougal load
Ranald’s still-soaked body upon the horse he’d intended for Malcom,
and could feel his face burn with impotent rage. They’d had to fish
the poor bastard out of the loch and then rewrap him, and only now
were strapping him on again. It seemed the lass was to go with
Iain, Malcom with auld Angus, and he was helpless to do anything
but stand and watch and seethe. He’d hoped Page and Malcom might
ride together.

He loathed feeling this
way—helpless—despised Iain’s bloody guts for it, too. Bastard! Just
like his father, he was! Thinking himself so noble for the
sacrifices he made.

Iain’s da, the gaddamn bastard, had
sacrificed even him—without so much as a backward thought.

Well... he intended to right the wrong soon
enough—rid himself first of Malcom, then of Iain, and then lead the
clan himself.

It was his right after having suffered in
silence all these years.

Damn Iain’s sire for a selfish old fool! Had
the old man truly expected that his deceit would never be
discovered? Had he anticipated that Lagan would simply accept the
lie so glibly when the truth was at last made known? That he’d
forget he’d been left, as a result of his father’s murder and the
ultimate deception, without a mother, or a father?

Foolhardy old man. In trying to save his son
from the repulsive truth—that his wife had dared to love another
man, a MacLean at that—he’d managed to strip Lagan of every
birthright.

Aye, for while Iain lamented never having
known the mother who had once suckled him at her breast, Lagan had
truly never known her at all. Christ, but he had not even the right
to grieve for her openly. He had only snatches of her memory from
Glenna, for not even Glenna would speak of the sister she’d lost so
shamefully—not even to the son she’d died giving birth to.

Iain, at least, had known her for those two
years—two years Lagan might have plucked out his eyes to have had
the same luxury—and his brother had not the right to grieve.

Whether he recalled her or nay.

Poor wretched Iain... his father’s revered
son... While Iain had been assiduously trained to take the lead of
his clan... Lagan had been naught more than a discarded
kinsman.

How he’d envied the old laird’s attentions
to his son. How he’d craved it. Never knowing...

Christ, but he’d not even been told of his
father until he’d been too old to feel anything more than
bitterness. That was all he’d ever been told—that his father had
been a deceiving MacLean, no more—and never once had the MacLeans
acknowledged him.

Never once.

It had been Glenna, the aunt he’d once
called mother, who had revealed the connivance after all. Her own
guilt had been great—and rightly so! She should never have
contrived to deprive him of his rightful life.

Damn them all, for he’d been robbed by
clansmen he’d loved—clansmen who’d favored the old laird more than
they had the lonely child he had been. Every last MacKinnon had
conspired to keep the dirty secret of his birth. None of them had
come forth, not a one!

And now those who would recall were mostly
dead, but for Glenna and a scarce few others. They too would pay.
And then... when the guilty were gone from his sight, he could
learn at last to live—never forgive, but to put the past behind him
once and for all.

The jest was upon old MacKinnon—might he
turn in his grave—for in trying to spare his goddamned son, Iain,
he’d burdened him with a lifetime of guilt over his mother’s death.
Stupid bastard, for it had been his own birth that had killed her,
not his half brother’s. And yet Iain had lived every day of his
miserable life thinking he’d been the one to rob their mother of
her last breath of life. Let him think so—bloody bastard—he could
take his bloody guilt to the grave, for all he cared—that, along
with the guilt he suffered over Mairi’s death. Damn, but he’d hoped
she would die at her childbed. He’d wanted her to so badly—had
tried so hard to make it come to pass.

Instead, she’d tossed herself from the
accursed window, and had stolen his chance with her youngest
sister. Stupid bitch. His dire warnings against Iain had been meant
to frighten her, make her life miserable, not send her out upon a
window ledge.

And yet... he had to admit... she’d
succeeded in wounding the whoreson in a way that might never have
been possible elsewise, for Iain had not once, since Mairi’s death,
taken a woman to his bed.

Until now.

He smiled, for this was one more way to see
the bastard bleed before he died.

His one dilemma now... to decide who should
depart the world sooner... the son... or the lover.

Mayhap both.

Together.

Long after Page awoke from her sated
slumber, she clung to the pretense of sleep, not quite able to face
Iain.

Nor could she deal with the accusations from
his men as Iain returned with her in his arms. She overheard their
grievances, their voiced indignation over her foul treatment of
poor Ranald, and felt more than a twinge of guilt over the havoc
she’d wreaked once more. Certainly she’d not meant to dump the
cadaver in the lake! It had been an accident, no more. But her
heart had filled with joy to hear Iain MacKinnon become her
champion. He’d commanded them all to silence, and with his
unsolicited defense, a gladness had flowered in her heart.

If the truth be known, more than aught else,
she didn’t wish to leave the refuge of his arms as yet. He held her
like a babe, his strong arms enfolding her within an embrace that
felt more like Heaven than even those puffy white clouds could
possibly.

Nay... she didn’t want to wake... wanted to
cling to him always.

To this illusion of love.

She felt cherished by the way he held her,
the way he stroked the hair from her face. But it was an illusion,
no more. She understood that well enough—just as she understood
that once she opened her eyes, she would no more be his lover, but
his hostage once again.

Oh, but how wonderful it had been for the
time.

She would cherish the memory of their loving
deep in her heart, remember every wonderful instant... and on those
evenings when she stared out from her chamber window... no more
would she wish for things that had never been, could never be...
She would carefully unwrap the crocus she held in her hand. Though
it might be faded and brittle with age, she would see it bright and
yellow and kissed by the dew. She would see his face—would feel the
great sweep of emotion that had twisted her heart and made a
mockery of her avowal that she felt mere lust for him. Aye, for in
that moment, she had loved him fiercely. In that magical instant
she had wanted to stay with him always.

Aye, and she’d wanted him to love her.

Her throat thickened with overwhelming
emotion when she recalled the way he’d plucked the bloom and placed
it within her hand. It was a simple gesture, one he might have
performed a thousand times, for a thousand different lovers... but
this one had been for her and her alone.

She wanted to weep, but didn’t dare, lest he
discover her awake.

The trail they were following veered upward,
a steeper incline than any they’d traveled as yet, and Page sighed
contentedly as she was forced closer to the man who would ever
after haunt her dreams.

As far as she could tell, it was late
afternoon.

Through the haze of her lashes, she could
spy ribbons of rose-red stretching across a faded blue sky. The sun
bathed the heathered hills in a buttery light, like a gentle mother
kissing all it touched before snuffing its light.

When the path turned steeper yet, Page dared
to cling to her dubious savior, taking comfort in his strength to
keep her safe. Her hand at his back took great pleasure in
exploring the sinew of his flesh, the broadness of his back, her
pretense of slumber affording her a boldness she would never have
dared elsewise.

He was a marvelous exemplar of a man, every
part of him well formed. She sighed at the memory of him kneeling
unclothed before her, magnificent and primeval.

The way he’d gazed at her; no one had ever
looked at her just so.

His eyes... they were the sort to make a
woman weak when they fell upon her in full measure. Something
flittered down deep within her belly with scarce the memory of his
smoldering gaze. Arrogantly confident, they appraised like one who
knew what he wanted and knew instinctively how to get it. They
probed for secrets, used them to ravage the heart... and the
body.

She shivered at the thought.

Of his hands upon her...

And his lips... lips that promised
unspeakable things... promises kept with such great relish. Jesu,
but he’d taken immense pleasure, judging by the mischievous turn of
his lips, in all that he’d done to her. He’d made love to her again
with that exquisite mouth, taking more pleasure in the endeavor
than it seemed possible a man could take in such a thing.

Unable to contain it, she gave a sleepy
little moan, and turned to bury her face against his chest. But it
was a mistake, she realized at once, for she breathed in the scent
of him, and was wholly undone by it.

Jesu, but she wanted to stay this way
forever.

But forever was an impossibility, and the
moment would be over too soon. Hot tears slipped from her lashes,
though she told herself they were absurd.

How could she love a man she scarcely knew?
Jesu, but she thought she did.